Jaime Lannister
The corridor outside Adrian's cabin was narrow and dim. Jaime stood before the door, his hand raised to knock, and found himself hesitating.
It was an unfamiliar sensation. Jaime Lannister did not hesitate. He charged into battle without a second thought. He'd killed a king. He'd faced down his father's fury more times than he could count.
But now, standing outside a cabin door, preparing to speak to a six-year-old boy who was supposedly his half-brother, he hesitated.
What do you even say to a child who's been through what Adrian has been through?
Hello, I'm your brother. Sorry you were tortured and had to kill four men to survive. How are you feeling?
Jaime grimaced at his own thoughts and knocked. Gently. Three soft taps that seemed absurdly delicate coming from a man who wielded a sword for a living.
"Come in," a small voice said from within.
Jaime opened the door.
The cabin was small but comfortable, certainly better than the cell Adrian had been kept in. A narrow cot was bolted to one wall, covered in clean linens and a thick wool blanket. A porthole on the opposite wall let in the fading afternoon light, painting everything in shades of amber and rose. A small table and chair occupied the corner, and someone had left a tray of food—bread, cheese, and a bowl of broth mostly untouched.
Adrian sat on the edge of the cot, his bare feet dangling several inches above the floor. He wore clean clothes now, a simple tunic and breeches in Lannister crimson that were still too large for his small frame. His silver-gold hair had been washed and hung damp around his face, darkening the unusual color but not hiding it entirely.
His left hand was wrapped in fresh white bandages, the linen so thick it looked like he was wearing a mitten made of cloth.
When Adrian looked up, Jaime saw something in those green eyes that hadn't been there in the Great Hall. Not quite excitement, but something close to it. Interest. Recognition. A spark of life breaking through the hollow distance.
Adrian straightened slightly, as if trying to sit up taller, to look more alert.
"Ser Jaime," Adrian said. His voice was hoarse, probably from the strangling, but he spoke clearly.
"Just Jaime," Jaime said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "You don't need to call me 'ser.' I'm your brother."
Adrian nodded slowly,
Jaime moved closer, and then—because he wasn't sure what else to do—he pulled the small chair away from the table and sat down near the cot. It put him at roughly eye level with Adrian, which seemed less intimidating than looming over the boy.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Jaime looked at the child. Even cleaned up, even in fresh clothes, Adrian looked fragile. The bruise on his cheekbone had darkened to a deep purple-black. There were shadows under his eyes. His wrists were too thin. He looked like a stiff wind could blow him over.
But his eyes felt like looking at Cersei, but somehow, a colder side of her; he wasn't sure how to explain it, but Adrian's eyes seemed cold in a way, like frozen grass.
Adrian broke the silence first.
"Can you fly?"
Jaime stopped mid-thought, his mouth half-open to say something else entirely. He blinked.
"Can I... what?"
"Can you fly?" Adrian repeated. His expression was perfectly serious.
Jaime stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that, the kind of laugh that just erupted without warning.
"Can I fly?" Jaime repeated, shaking his head. "Seven hells. No, I can't fly. Why are you asking that?"
Adrian's cheeks colored slightly, but his expression didn't change. "Tyrion talks about you often. He told me once that you can fly."
Jaime's laughter faded into a warm smile. "Did he now?"
"Yes. He said you jump off things really high and land like it's nothing. He said you move so fast in a fight that it's like you have wings."
"Ah." Jaime's smile widened. "That's just Tyrion being poetic. I'm fast, yes. But I'm still like everyone else. No wings. No flying. Just a lot of practice and some luck."
Adrian looked faintly disappointed.
Jaime leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What else did our brother tell you about me?"
Adrian seemed to relax a little; he no longer seemed like he was ready to protect himself, and it seemed the thought of Tyrion had improved his mood.
"He said you're the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms," Adrian said. "That you've never lost a fight."
"Well, I wouldn't say never," Jaime said modestly, though he was actually pleased. "But I do win most of them."
"He said you're very brave. And very handsome. And that ladies like you very much."
Jaime grinned. "Now that part is definitely true. Tyrion isn't wrong about most of that." Thought Jaime was quite certain Adrian would grow up to be good-looking.
Adrian continued. "He said you became a knight when you were very young. Younger than anyone else. Fifteen, he said. You were the youngest knight in... in..." He frowned, searching for the word.
"In living memory," Jaime supplied. "Yes. That's true."
"Why did you become a knight so young?"
Jaime's smile became more complicated. "That's... a long story. But the short version is that I was good with a sword, and someone important thought I deserved the honor."
"Was it the King?"
"No, but it's not important who knights you." Jaime didn't feel like talking about him. "Being knighted young is an honor. But it's also a lot of responsibility."
Adrian nodded solemnly. "Tyrion said you protect the King. That you wear white armor and stand guard even when it's boring."
Jaime laughed again, softer this time. "It is boring. Very, very boring sometimes. I spend more time standing still than I do fighting. My feet hurt more than my sword arm most days."
This made Adrian smile. The first real smile Jaime had seen from him.
"Do you ever fall asleep while you're standing?" Adrian asked.
"I'm not supposed to," Jaime said conspiratorially. "But between you and me? Sometimes my eyes get very heavy. Especially during long feasts where everyone's talking about grain yields and tax revenues."
"That sounds terrible."
"It truly is."
"What's it like? Protecting the King?"
Jaime considered his answer carefully. He wanted to be honest, but he also didn't want to shatter any illusions the boy might have about knights and honor and glory.
"It's an honor," Jaime said finally. "But it's also... complicated. Kings aren't always what you expect them to be."
Adrian tilted his head. "Father says kings are just men with crowns. That the crown doesn't make them special. It just makes them important."
Jaime felt like he just swallowed ice.
The boy sounded exactly like Tywin.
Not just the words but the way he said them. The measured tone. The slight pause before "important," as if weighing the word carefully.
It was eerie.
"Our father is... not wrong about that either," Jaime said carefully. "Kings are men. Some are good men. Some are..." He stopped himself. "Not as good."
"King Robert is brave," Adrian said. "Tyrion told me. He said King Robert killed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident with his warhammer. Is that true?"
"It is."
"Was Prince Rhaegar bad?"
Jaime's throat tightened. He thought of Rhaegar, beautiful, melancholy Rhaegar who played the harp and sang songs and started a war over a woman. He thought of every thought he had about Adrian from the moment Cersei begged him to save Adrian and to never tell their father that she had that reaction.
Your mother, I think. You have her eyes.
"That's... complicated," Jaime said, his voice rougher than intended. "Prince Rhaegar was... he made choices. Those choices led to a war. A lot of people died."
Adrian absorbed this with that same unsettling seriousness. "Oh."
Jaime decided to steer the conversation away from Rhaegar Targaryen before it went somewhere dangerous. "Tell me more about you and Tyrion. What do you two do together?"
Adrian's face lit up.
"He reads to me," Adrian said, his words coming faster now. "We go to the library all the time. He knows everything. He knows about history and dragons and battles and... and everything. He tells me stories about Old Valyria and the Doom and the conquest of Westeros."
"Of course he does." Jaime couldn't help but smile. "Tyrion always did love his books more than his sword."
"He's smart," Adrian said defensively, as if Jaime had insulted their brother. "He says being smart is better than being strong."
"He's right about that too," Jaime said gently.
"He carved me a dragon once. A wooden one. He spent three days making it perfect. I named it Balerion."
Jaime's smile widened. "Of course you did. After the Black Dread. Do you still have it?"
Adrian's face fell, the light dimming from his eyes. "Tyrion kept it for me. At home. Father wanted me to destroy it, but Tyrion hid it."
Jaime's smile faded. Of course, Father wanted it destroyed. But why thought, Tyrion had plenty of dragon toys when he was little, and their father never seemed to care, so why should he with Adrian?
He pushed the thought away.
"Tyrion is good at hiding things," Jaime said carefully. "I'm sure your dragon is safe with him."
"I'm sure he is keeping it safe for me."
"He's the most reliable person I know."
"Tyrion is the smartest person I know," Adrian said. "He says I'm smart too."
"You are smart," Jaime said firmly. "Smarter than I was at your age, I think. I was mostly interested in hitting things with swords."
"Don't you like books?"
"I like some books. Mostly the ones with pictures of battles." Jaime grinned. "But Tyrion reads the boring ones too. The ones about philosophy and law and economics. I could never sit still for those."
Adrian nodded thoughtfully. "I like the books about dragons."
"Of course you do."
"Have you been to many places?" Adrian asked suddenly, his eyes brightening with curiosity. "Tyrion says you've traveled all over Westeros."
"I have," Jaime said. "I've been to King's Landing, obviously. And Casterly Rock. The Riverlands. Dorne once, though that was... unpleasant. Storm's End. But I have never been to the North, a little cold for my taste."
"What's your favorite place?"
Jaime thought about it. "Casterly Rock, probably. It's home. It's where I grew up. The view from the top of the Rock at sunset is... there's nothing else like it in the world."
"I've never been to the top," Adrian said. "Father says I'm too small. That I might fall."
"You won't be small forever," Jaime said. "When you're older, I'll take you to the top myself. We'll watch the sun set over the sea and you can see why I love it so much."
Adrian's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really. I promise."
Adrian studied him carefully, as if measuring the weight of that promise. Then he nodded, apparently satisfied.
"Do you have a dragon?" Adrian asked.
Jaime blinked at the sudden shift. "What? No. No, there are no more dragons. They're all gone."
"All of them?" Adrian looked genuinely distressed by this. "Even the eggs?"
"Even the eggs. The last dragons died more than a hundred years ago."
"That's sad." Adrian's voice was small. "Tyrion says they were beautiful. That they could burn whole armies and fly faster than the wind."
"They could," Jaime said. "They were also very dangerous. They killed a lot of people."
"But they were still beautiful," Adrian insisted.
Jaime looked at the boy—this small, silver-gold-haired child who loved dragons and Targaryen history and who killed four men to survive—and felt that cold suspicion settle deeper in his chest.
Whose son are you really?
"Yes," Jaime said quietly. "They were still beautiful."
Adrian was quiet for a moment, then asked in a smaller voice, "Do you have a lady you love?"
Jaime froze.
The question was innocent—just a child's curiosity—but it struck him like a lance through the chest.
He thought of Cersei. The two had a child together, Joffrey, yet Jaime never really thought of him as his son, and Cersei made sure to let him know, even telling him that he cannot be too affectionate towards him, or it might raise suspicions. Cersei, who had wept in his arms and begged him to save Adrian.
Cersei, who might have given birth to Adrian himself, if Jaime's suspicions were correct.
"That's... complicated," Jaime said finally, his voice tight. He cleared his throat and tried to smile. "What about you? Do you have any friends?"
Adrian's expression brightened slightly. "Joy Hill is my best friend. She's my cousin. Uncle Gerion's daughter."
"Ah, Joy." Jaime had heard of her, Gerion's bastard, brought back from one of his adventures in Essos. "I've never met her. What's she like?"
"She's nice," Adrian said. "We play together. I promised her I'd bring her back something from the festival at Lannisport."
His face fell. "I had a present for her. A silver hair clasp shaped like a rose. But I lost it. I think."
"I'm sure she'll understand," Jaime said gently.
"And Tyrion is my brother. And my friend," Adrian continued. "He's both."
"That's good. Everyone should have a brother who's also a friend."
Adrian paused, then said quietly, "And Sandor. He is really alive!"
"He's alive," Jaime assured him. "He's on another ship, but he's alive. He fought very hard to find you. When we discovered you were missing from the cell, he... well, he was very determined to get you back."
"I thought he was dead," Adrian whispered. "I heard him fighting when Euron's men took me. There was so much noise. So much screaming. And then I didn't hear him anymore."
"Sandor Clegane is very hard to kill," Jaime said. "I think you'd have to drop a castle on him to stop him, and even then I'm not sure it would work."
Adrian's lips twitched. "He taught me how to fight. How to use my size. He said being small doesn't mean being weak."
"He's right. Some of the most dangerous fighters I know are small. They're fast and hard to hit."
Adrian looked down at his bandaged hand. "Will I still be able to fight? When this heals?"
Jaime's heart clenched at the worry in the boy's voice. He leaned forward, making sure Adrian was looking at him.
"Yes," he said firmly. "You'll heal. And when you're ready, I'll teach you myself if you want."
Adrian's eyes widened. "Really? You'd teach me?"
"Really. I promise."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
Adrian stared at him for a long moment, and Jaime could see him weighing the promise, testing it for truth.
"Tyrion always keeps his promises," Adrian said finally. "Are you like Tyrion?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
Are you like Tyrion?
Was he? Tyrion, who everyone mocked and dismissed but who was probably the best of the three of them. Tyrion, who read books and understood people and kept a wooden dragon hidden away because a child had asked him to. Tyrion, who had never betrayed anyone, never broken an oath, never killed anyone who didn't deserve it, and someone who was lied to by his own brother.
"I try to be," Jaime said honestly. "Your brother is a better man than me in many ways. But I keep my promises when I can."
Adrian seemed to accept this. He nodded slowly. "Good."
An awkward silence fell. Jaime shifted in his chair, suddenly aware that he had no idea how to talk to children.
"I..." Jaime started, then stopped. "When I was your age, maybe a year or two older, I was training in the yard at Casterly Rock. I was so eager to impress the master-at-arms that I tried to do this complicated move I'd seen one of the older boys do. Spinning with the sword, you know? Very flashy."
Adrian leaned forward slightly, interested.
"Well, I spun," Jaime continued. "And I spun. And then I spun right into the water trough. Went head-first into it, full armor and all. Made the most tremendous splash. Soaked everyone within ten feet."
Adrian's eyes widened. "What happened?"
"The master-at-arms pulled me out by my boot," Jaime said, grinning at the memory. "I was sputtering and coughing and completely mortified. All the other boys were laughing. Even the servants were laughing. I wanted to die of embarrassment."
"What did you do?"
"I pretended I'd done it on purpose," Jaime said. "Told everyone I was just testing to see if my armor would rust. Then I got up, bowed to the master-at-arms, and went right back to training like nothing had happened."
Adrian stared at him for a moment.
Then he laughed.
The boy's laughter felt like the sun in the morning; it was musical, like hearing a song of laughter, but then he winced as he pressed his hand to his chest, and still the grin remained on his face.
"You really fell in a water trough?" Adrian asked, still smiling.
"Face-first," Jaime confirmed. "Most embarrassing moment of my childhood. Well, one of them anyway."
"Tyrion fell off a horse once," Adrian offered. "He said the horse stopped too fast and he went right over its head into a mud puddle."
"That sounds like Tyrion," Jaime said, chuckling. "Did he pretend it was on purpose too?"
"No. He said it was the horse's fault for being stupid."
Jaime laughed. "Of course he did."
The conversation lapsed into a comfortable quiet. Outside, the light was fading, turning the sea visible through the porthole from copper to deep blue-grey.
Jaime looked at Adrian and felt something unexpected stir in his chest. Something protective and fierce.
"I would like to see King's Landing," Adrian said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I've never been there."
Jaime's eyebrows rose slightly. "You want to see King's Landing?"
"Yes. Tyrion told me about it. The Red Keep and the Great Sept of Baelor and all the people." Adrian's eyes brightened with curiosity. "He said there are a hundred thousand people living there. Maybe more."
"There are," Jaime confirmed. He couldn't help but smile. "Though I'd better warn you—you should get used to the smell of shit first."
Adrian blinked. "What?"
"King's Landing," Jaime said, his smile widening at the boy's confusion. "It smells. Badly. Like... well, like a hundred thousand people living on top of each other with nowhere for their waste to go except the streets."
Adrian's nose wrinkled. "It always smells like that?"
"When the wind is blowing in the right direction, it's not so bad," Jaime said. "But on a hot summer day with no breeze? You can smell it from miles away. I've seen grown men retch when they first arrive at the city gates."
"That sounds terrible."
"It is. But you get used to it eventually. And the Red Keep is up on Aegon's High Hill, so the smell doesn't reach there as often." Jaime leaned forward conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think that's why the Targaryens built it so high. So they wouldn't have to smell their own city."
Adrian giggled.
"Still," Jaime continued, "you'll probably get your chance to visit soon enough. After the Rebellion ends, King Robert will want a tourney. A grand celebration of his victory against the squids. House Lannister will almost certainly be invited. Father wouldn't miss an opportunity to display Lannister wealth and power in front of the entire realm."
Adrian's face lit up. "A tourney? With knights and jousting and everything?"
"With knights and jousting and everything," Jaime confirmed. "Though I should warn you, tourneys are mostly a lot of standing around in uncomfortable armor waiting for your turn. The actual fighting is over in minutes."
"But you'll be fighting, won't you? In the tourney?"
"Probably. If Father allows it. The Kingsguard aren't usually supposed to compete in tourneys, but..." Jaime shrugged. "Rules can be bent sometimes."
Adrian looked thrilled at the prospect. "I'd like to see that. I'd like to see you fight."
"Then I'll make sure to win," Jaime said. "Can't have my little brother thinking I'm all talk and no skill."
Adrian smiled, then his expression grew more thoughtful. "I love Casterly Rock," he said quietly. "But I want to see more of the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion has been to so many places. I've only ever been to Lannisport and... here."
The word here felt heavy.
"You'll see plenty when you're older," Jaime said gently. "Lords travel all the time. For councils, for weddings, for tourneys. You'll see everything eventually."
Adrian nodded, then muttered something so quietly that Jaime almost didn't hear it.
"I wish I had my harp with me."
Jaime froze.
"Your... harp?" he said slowly.
Adrian looked up, seemingly unaware of Jaime's sudden tension. "Yes. I left it at Casterly Rock. I wanted to bring it to the festival, but Father said it was too valuable to risk losing."
Jaime's mind was spinning. A harp. The boy plays the harp.
"Are you taking singing lessons?" Jaime asked, his voice sounding blank.
Adrian shook his head. "No. I don't have a proper teacher. I just... like to sing. And play. Uncle Tygett says I have a natural ear for music."
"Are you good at it?" Jaime asked.
Adrian shrugged. "I don't know. Everyone who hears me says I'm very good. Aunt Genna says I could make the stones weep if I wanted to. Uncle Tygett says I have a gift. Even Father said..." He paused. "Father said I played well. Once."
Jaime felt something cold settle in his stomach.
A silver-gold-haired boy who plays the harp and sings. Who has a gift for music.
Just like Rhaegar.
He forced himself to smile, to keep his voice light. "Well, you'll have to play for me when we get back to Casterly Rock. I'd like to hear this gift everyone talks about."
"I can't sing right now," Adrian said, his voice tinged with frustration. "Because of my chest. The Maester said I have to wait. A few months at least. Maybe longer."
"That's probably wise," Jaime said. "Your body needs time to heal. But when you're better, you can sing all you want."
Adrian nodded, though he looked disappointed.
"Where is Uncle Tygett?" Adrian asked suddenly, looking around as if he'd just realized something. "Is he here? On the ship?"
"He's on another ship," Jaime said. "Part of the fleet. But he'll come to visit very soon. I'm sure he'll want to see you."
"I'd like that." Adrian's voice was small. "Uncle Tygett is... he's the one who taught me to fight. He said I was getting better. Before..." He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
"You were getting better," Jaime said firmly. "And you'll get better still. Once your hand heals, we'll make sure you're the best swordsman in your age group. Uncle Tygett and I will both help."
Adrian smiled faintly. "Both of you?"
"Both of us. Between Tygett's teaching and mine, you'll be unstoppable."
There was silence again, but Jaime's mind was anything but silent.
The harp. The singing. The musical gift that everyone notices.
The silver-gold hair. The green eyes. The age, six years old, which means he was born nine months after the Tourney at Harrenhal.
Cersei's hysteria when she learned he was taken.
Tywin's possessiveness. His insistence that Adrian stay with the fleet.
All the pieces were there. All the evidence pointing to one impossible, terrible, dangerous truth.
Adrian wasn't Tywin's bastard.
He was Cersei's son.
Jaime wanted to believe that Cersei might have had a son with someone, anyone but him, but Cersei wouldn't have risked a bastard with anyone less than...
Oh gods.
Rhaegar.
Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince. The silver prince who played the harp and sang songs that made women weep. Who had crowned someone Cersei as his Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal.
Cersei.
It had been Cersei.
And nine months later...
Adrian yawned, covering his mouth with his unbandaged hand. He was fighting sleep now, his eyes blinking slowly.
"Come on," Jaime said. "Lie down before you fall over."
Adrian scooted back on the cot, moving carefully, wincing when his ribs protested. Jaime helped him lie down—gently, trying not to jar his injuries—and pulled the thick wool blanket up to his chin.
Adrian looked very small under the blanket. Very young. Very fragile.
And very dangerous, Jaime thought. If anyone ever learns the truth.
"Comfortable?" Jaime asked.
"Yes."
Jaime moved toward the door, then paused. He looked back at Adrian, who was already half-asleep, his damp hair spread across the pillow, his bandaged hand resting on top of the blanket.
Silver-gold hair. Green eyes. A gift for music.
Rhaegar's son. Cersei's son.
The heir to the Iron Throne.
The most dangerous secret in Westeros.
As he reached for the door latch, Adrian spoke again, very quietly.
"Thank you for coming to find me."
Jaime's hand froze on the latch. He turned back.
Adrian's eyes were closed now, his breathing evening out into the rhythm of sleep. He might not have even realized he'd spoken aloud.
"Always, little brother," Jaime whispered, his voice rough with emotion he didn't fully understand. "Always."
He stepped out into the corridor and closed the door softly behind him.
The narrow hallway was mostly empty, except for ten guards, the lantern still swaying with the ship's movement. Jaime stood there for a long moment, his back against the wall, his eyes closed.
He thought about Adrian's laugh. About the way his face lit up when he talked about Tyrion. About how he'd asked if Jaime could fly.
He thought about the bruises and the bandages and the hollow look that had been in those green eyes in the Great Hall.
He thought about four dead men and a Valyrian steel sword and a six-year-old boy who'd grabbed a blade with his bare hand because it was the only way to survive.
He thought about Cersei weeping in his arms. Save him. Please, Jaime. Save him.
He thought about Rhaegar's silver-gold hair and musical gift. About Cersei's green eyes and fierce pride. About Tywin's cold calculation and the lie he'd built to protect this child.
Whose son are you really, Adrian?
He knew now. Or at least, he was certain enough.
And more importantly: Does it matter?
Jaime opened his eyes and looked at the closed door.
No. It didn't matter. Not right now. Not when the boy was six years old and broken and needed someone to protect him.
The truth could wait.
For now, Jaime had made a promise. To Adrian. To himself. Maybe even to Cersei.
He would protect this boy. No matter what father said.
Tomorrow, he would come back. Just like he'd promised.
And every day after that, until Adrian was safe.
Until Adrian was home.
Jaime's mind went to another person, to Rhaenys. She was waiting for him to return to King's Landing, and if he was right about who Adrian truly was, that meant she and Adrian were...oh dear God!!